


Drove Through Ghosts To Get Here

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Berlin (City), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 13:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bono and Edge set out late at night in Berlin to find some terrifically shite food. Set during the recording of Achtung Baby.





	Drove Through Ghosts To Get Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> Hi all, I'm not meant to be here, so if anyone asks, I'm buried under homework right now! (and I actually am, but, well, you know how it is). Anyway, my plan was to write something short and sweet and lovely for end of tour, but instead things took a longer, angstier turn, which is my fault, really, for setting in Berlin--what did I expect? And how many fics CAN I write about them in Berlin? A MILLION? IT SEEMS THAT WAY. So anyway, there is some creative assumptions going on here, in that I have no idea what Berlin is like, nor what it was like in 1990, so just imagine that it looks how I describe, as I am a long long long long long way from Europe and that makes me sad. Also dedicated to fouroux, as they love a bit of angst, plus they deserve a present from me as I've not given them one in a while. Love to all, title comes from the song of the same name--look it up! xx

In considering the other three, there are different facets to take into account, different tells of where their mind is currently at.

Larry has never been shy of revealing his thoughts, calling a spade a spade, a failing lyric or melody exactly that, except in a language that is purely him. Colour is irrelevant to a person who deals only in black and white, who brings out the sun when he smiles—as Bono eloquently puts it—but knows best when to create a storm. That is his gift, his tell. Words, biting words.

Adam prefers avoiding confrontation until he’s left with no other choice. It’s either speak up or implode, and he does both with the air of a gentleman, one who has simply had enough. But before that comes the silence.

Edge learned early on that a truly quiet Adam is a person who they all should be concerned about. Although sometimes he will sit there and listen, watching and waiting for his time to step in and mediate, fix the problem as well as he can. Other times, he will stay in his chair and wait until those words that are being directed his way come to, perhaps not a complete stop, but a pause, one that often lasts only as long as a catching of one’s breath takes. That small beat of silence is still long enough for Adam to make his move, for him to stand up and respond as is his way. To hand over his bass and walk out of the room.

Bono, for his part, can seem erratic when backed into a corner, or distraught, or so furious that danger looks to be on the card. But the truth is, he’s predictable in his unpredictability.

His tells are numerous and fascinating, worthy of their own study. Those who don’t know his true character, who have only witnessed his highs and lows but not the in-betweens, might think they could predict how Bono would react when he is hurt, and perhaps they would get it right thirty, forty percent of the time, not realizing that there are different kinds of hurt, different hours in the day.

 _He’s lashed out before, he’ll do it again_ , they would say, having never seen his face crumble, or him removing himself from the equation knowing that he’s the problem, or even standing so still, lost for words as he clutches an instrument in his hands. Maybe they _have_ experienced a Bono who is determined to remain positive when inside he is anything but, or him turning to humour as a way to make it through even just that one single moment, but it doesn't matter. They still could never know him quite like Edge does. And it’s not jealousy in its purest form that arises when anyone makes an attempt at better understanding Bono, but it’s close enough.

Edge can only imagine what his own tell might be when he’s upset. It’s probably something along the lines of what he’s doing right now. Guitar in his hand, time a distant concept, striving for perfection, for a sound that matches the one in his head as day turns to night and night creeps closer to its terrible end.

 _Bad day?_ Larry had asked with one look before it all turned to shit.

 _Bad life_ , Edge had wanted to correct.

Rarely has Bono had to ask, not even silently. He just knows.

“Come on,” he says only when he’s sure he’ll be heard, in the immediate aftermath of Edge settling down his guitar with the intent of taking a short break, nothing longer. But Bono knows exactly how to get his way when it comes to Edge. Sometimes, it takes incessant needling. On days like today, however, a too-bright smile and a handful of words is all that is needed. “Let’s go have some terrifically shite food.”

Still, Edge does put up a small protest, knowing that it’s expected, having become a part of the game. But his heart isn’t in it. It’s the music that he needs, certainly, but music is not the only salvation in life.

It’s still dark outside as they leave the studio behind, the streetlamps above and a spattering of neon signs providing the only light they need in their aimless journey with one real set destination. The moon and stars are completely concealed by clouds that look as though they might be a threat, a handful of people—some sinister in nature, others shuffling along like zombies—pass by on the street, but Edge isn’t the least bit worried. By anything. Nothing in Berlin, anyway.

He’s seen Bono on the defense, he’s even found a bit of fire in himself in the past. There’s nothing here that they cannot handle. It’s Dublin that currently holds all the problems in Edge’s life. The people, the home that’s just a house now. Maybe one day soon he’ll figure out what his next move is. But for now, this is it. Just him and Bono, prowling the streets in a foreign country, on the hunt for food like a couple of animals.

They find it in the form of a cart that’s seen better days, two streets over from the studio. The vendor doesn’t speak English, and his smile as he listens to Bono stumble through a bastardization of the German language is one that Edge knows, that he’s seen so many people do, himself included, in pictures and footage of their encounters with a man who is charm personified. Even when Bono can barely communicate with a person, he still knows how to make it count.

Edge has known Bono for what feels like a lifetime, and yet he’s still amazed by this particular skill—that, and everything else. Yes, Bono can be a right pain in the arse sometimes, but it makes no difference to how he is viewed. Truthfully, Edge is just in awe of him. At the start, at the end of their time on this earth, and now, especially now. As he walks away from the food cart, smiling like he’s just accomplished a herculean task, raising his Brühwurst in his right hand, as though it were a glass of wine.

“A toast,” he declares, “to our fading creativity and evasive muse, wherever she may be on God’s given earth.”

“Or beyond,” Edge adds.

“Or beyond.” Bono’s arm comes down and in, cradling his meal close to his chest as he walks. It’s only a brief silence that passes between them before a new idea emerges. “You know, Edge,” he says, his smile turning lopsided, his eyes holding none of their spark, “maybe you could take me back to your home planet, see if we can’t make something work there. I doubt it would be the strangest place a musician ever found inspiration, although it’s certainly up there.”

“The elders of my home planet are incredibly strict in preserving our culture, B. You’d have to promise that you wouldn’t tell a single soul back home what you saw, or how we even got there.”

“Scared that our people are going to try and colonize your utopia?”

“Colonize, destroy. Either/or.”

“Valid concerns, The Edge. Though there is a sizable chunk of humanity who would come in peace, you know.”

“Few of which control the various governments.”

“Ah,” Bono says with a grimace. “We’re having one of _those_  nights. I should have known.”

“Yes, you should.”

“What can I say? It’s late, I’m slipping, I’m about to eat an overcooked sausage, fuck the establishment, they’ll kill us all one day, Edge, you watch. We’re bound to get caught in the firing line of two hothead leaders having a pissing contest with their finger on the big red nuclear button, so why not just give up right now? What is the point of enjoying life when The Manhattan Project gave this world a death sentence? You know, I fucking hope that this sausage is riddled with salmonella, so I can get out of here before World War fucking Three begins. What a fitting end that would be, shitting out my insides until death mercifully takes me from this horrific world.”

“. . . Jesus.”

“Too extreme?”

“That’s a word for it.”

“Unnecessarily hysterical?”

Edge nods, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. This mocking is probably well-deserved. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Hmm. Good thing that I don’t actually buy into any of that crap then, isn’t it?” Bono says, then reaches out to take Edge’s arm. They come to a sudden stop, side by side and then face to face as Edge moves around a stock-still Bono like he is the Sun, though concealed too by so many dark clouds. His smile is slow to appear, but his eyes aim for speed as they dart back and forth across Edge’s face. “There’s always light at the end of the tunnel, Edge,” he insists, even as the look in his eye betrays what’s being said, “no matter how bleak things may appear. And it’s not a train hurtling towards us, but hope. It’s always hope.”

 “Yeah,” Edge says after a short pause, “that sounds more like the Bono I know.” _Excessively positive_ , he wants to add. _A supernova in our night sky_.

“Think you know me, do you?”

“Mmhmm. Want me to prove it?”

Bono responds only with silence, saying exactly what he means with a look, a smile. His _yes_ is revealed in the way his lip quirks, _please_ in the slow drag of his gaze. Any thought of Edge staying a miserable fuck for the rest of his days fades, just like that, gone until the exact moment his hotel room door closes behind Bono in the near future, and not a moment too soon nor later. Company is a remedy in itself, but only the right kind, the type who know best how to cancel out all the static, all the noise, and create their own, a sound that could never do Edge any harm.

“Hungry?” Bono asks.

“Starving,” Edge answers.

They eat their terrifically shite food whilst sitting on a kerb close to an intersection that is bustling in the daylight, a ghost town at four a.m. Further down the street, they get lucky and find a quicker way to reach where they want to go, stumbling into the taxi like a pair of drunken teenagers, only without the giggling, without the commotion. Just inelegance. Touching. A hand high up on Bono’s thigh, a reluctant shake of his head, _not here_ , his look says. “Where to?” asks the driver.

“The brown hotel,” Bono answers. The taxi remains stationary until Edge speaks up and gives the actual name, more than just a colour.

It’s not a long drive, he knows, and yet. A glance at his watch confirms that time is not, in fact, moving backward, and yet. It’s a curious interpretation of hell, the backseat of a taxi. What have they done to deserve such a punishment?

 _This._  He's sure of it, as his hand itches to make another move. This, and everything else that has come with it. Is it worth it? One look to his right confirms the _yes_ that is belting through his mind. Another look, this one returned, accompanied by a worn smile, dull eyes. It’s needed, this, more so now than in the past, those nights early on when they had no idea what the hell was going on, just that they had to keep going. What would happen if they tried to stop now?

A supernova, Edge is almost certain. And it would start with the collapse of the band, before it tried its hand on the two of them. Who knows? Maybe it’s already started.

He closes his eyes to pass the time, to speed through an eternity. In what feels like an instant, they arrive at the brown hotel. Bono’s mind has already moved on from the drive, though he does remember to thank the driver before getting out. It’s not rudeness that keeps him from offering to pay, but distraction, a tendency to be absentminded. It’s how he was wired from birth, and, as frustrating as he can be sometimes, Edge wouldn’t have him any other way.

“Thank you,” Edge says to the driver, before overpaying.

The lobby is deserted, the man behind the reception desk offering them a too-bright smile for the hour. “Guten Abend,” he calls, though it feels closer to morning than evening. Edge nods his way, Bono waves, his smile fading the moment they step into the elevator.

They are silent on the way up, the _ding_ of their arrival on the sixth floor shaking them back to the world of the living.

In another life, Edge might have been struck by the eeriness of his deserted floor, the lack of voices, of slamming doors, not to mention the horrific carpeting they are walking upon. But they are used to wandering hotels at this time of night. They have done it all.

His hotel room is lifeless in comparison to what he’s left back in Dublin. This isn’t a place where a family could exist, where a wife and children could add a splash of colour, of vibrancy, a reason to reconsider certain things in life. To walk through some homes is to remember the scent of perfume, hers and others. The sound of laughter, of little feet pitter-pattering down the hallway. Here, there is only pressed linen and grey walls. He pushes Bono against the door once it is closed, simply to hold him there, relishing the warmth of another body, the feel of hands sliding high and low as they rediscover the dip of Edge’s lower back, the curve of his shoulders.

It’s too early for coffee, too late to start on hard liquor. Without knowing what else to do, Edge makes them both a cup of tea, then leads Bono toward the lounge. It’s where Edge leaves him, after watching Bono deplete half of his mug, and taking a couple of sips of his own drink before setting it down on the coffee table, where he’s sure it’ll stay until at least the sun has risen, maybe longer.

In the shower, he washes away the heaviness of the studio, the heat of the water loosening his limbs and turning him once more into a person who is close to human. He’s quick to dry himself, quicker to brush his teeth, determined to make it out of the bathroom before the foggy mirror starts to clear.

There is a hope, as he walks naked toward his bedroom, that Bono has left the couch behind and is waiting with a smile, with the look that he gets only when things in their lives are going exactly as planned. But Edge finds his bed empty, made up as if no one has ever even breathed on it, let alone stretched out on top of the covers.

He pulls on a pair of pyjama pants and the same shirt he wore the last time he slept, whenever that might have been. A day, more. Life just keeps on blurring, though this is always crystal clear. Last Friday, in this very bed. They’d had pizza and drank enough beer for Bono to let down his façade, for him to say, “They’re going to leave, Edge. I just know it. Any day now,” and for Edge to respond, “You can’t think like that,” his mindset, as is often the case, turning positive only when Bono’s goes to shit.

“It’s not working though,” Bono had insisted, giving Edge real cause to kiss him, make him stop thinking. Shut him up.

And the Tuesday before that, beginning in the kitchen, ending on the couch. “I want you to . . .” Bono had started before shaking his head, leaning back against the warmth of Edge’s body.

“What?” Edge had asked, though he’d been pretty sure he had known. “What do you want?” Bono had simply smiled, an answer in full, humming his contentment when Edge’s hand had slipped lower, nodding at the suggestion being whispered in his ear.

Somewhere along the way, this turned from a curiosity, a way of blowing off steam, to a dependence. A word starting with _a_ that Bono hates to use, though it is. Luckily for Edge, his marriage is already over. There is little else that can be broken in that relationship. “Ali would understand, I think,” Bono had said, only a few weeks prior. “We’d make it work. She wouldn’t leave me over this.”

“Are you going to tell her, then?” Edge had asked. No response had come.

In the lounge, he finds Bono curled up against the arm, half asleep. The television is on, muted, the curtains open to reveal only darkness, though not for much longer. Soon, there will be a change. Pink and purple skies, a breaking of light. It’s so late that it’s early, and the shadows beneath Bono’s eyes, the lines that have only recently started to become familiar, give Edge pause.

Sometimes, he’s sure that Bono feeds off his energy. And there are days where that might be a good thing, others, like now, where Edge almost hates himself for bringing Bono down to his level. _You’ve got your own shit to deal with_ , he imagines saying from time to time, _I don’t want you taking on mine as well_.

He should let Bono sleep, let them both get some rest. But when Bono smiles up at him, the sleepy warmth of it a stark contrast to the darkness found elsewhere on his face, Edge knows it’s too late. He can’t let Bono be. No, this is needed, perhaps today more so by him than Edge.

They sit and watch television for a while, and Bono allows this interlude simply because, Edge figures, he is too decent, too patient, though not always. In the studio, he can be touchy. On days ending in _y_ , he is changeable and hasty. But behind these closed doors, surrounded by grey, Bono knows exactly the right chord to strike.

There’s only so long that Edge can keep his hands to himself, however. And when he finally does move, it’s without thinking, first taking the empty mug from Bono’s grasp to set on the coffee table, then reaching out a hand. When his palm finds Bono’s cheek, it brings forth a smile, a long exhale of breath, before Bono turns into the touch, pressing his lips against fingers when they start their trek across the angles and curves of his face. He is ready for anything, quiet but eager, allowing Edge to reposition him, shift them both into positions that are far more agreeable.

It’s only when Edge leans in that Bono takes a semblance of control, angling his neck, exposing his jugular, making an exact suggestion of what he wants to happen in the next few moments. He tastes like a day lived, smells of a night at the studio. An absence of perfume. “Tell me it’ll be okay,” he says suddenly, taking them both by surprise.

“Bono—”

“I don’t care if you lie.”

“I never lie to you. You know that.”

Bono shrugs, his lip tugging downwards as he twists the material of Edge’s shirt between his fingers. _Yes, you do_ , his eyes say, and he would likely be half-right to claim such a thing. But it’s not a true lie if Edge believes it at the time, nor is it anything but a positive distorting of the truth when he attempts to convince Bono of what they both hope to be true. “Try,” Bono says instead.

A week ago, a day ago, even, it might have come more easily to Edge, the words that are needed. But today, it seems he needs time to formulate them, make it believable. He stalls in the best way that he knows how, by silencing Bono to keep him from asking more questions and making it all just that much harder—though often, his voice and words bring nothing but sweetness and calm and need to Edge’s life.

He uses one finger to trace Bono’s lower lip, two to slip into his mouth, where they are lightly sucked, teased with his tongue, scraped by his teeth. _I know what you’re doing_ , his eyes say, _but it’s okay. I can want two things at once._ A wet line is created against his skin when Edge removes his fingers, dragging them down and then to the right, following that damp trail with his mouth. One kiss for Bono’s chin, a handful along his cheek, and then back to the left, finding his lips, his jaw, his ear, where Edge whispers words that he hopes are the truth, “Everything is going to be alright.”


End file.
